


The Miracle

by thorin_ohhhkenshield (thorinlock)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Drabble, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, christmas johnlock, christmas sherlock, sherlock and john - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 11:40:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5538518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorinlock/pseuds/thorin_ohhhkenshield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Reichenbach episode, John visits Sherlock's grave on Christmas, only to receive an unexpected Christmas miracle - the best gift he could hope for. </p><p>Headcanon/AU where Sherlock returns after less than two years, on Christmas. Happy fic for the Christmas season, my own Christmas special :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Miracle

“Merry Christmas. Sherlock,” whispered John Watson on a grey Christmas morning, hand reaching out to caress the cold gravestone of his best friend. 

In all honesty, John had stopped counting time for a while now. Yet on Christmas everything seemed to fall back in order as his world realigned itself.

You see, Christmas was special, because at least on this day John was clear about a few things:

1\. It was Christmas day. The last few Christmases of John’s life were the only kinds of Christmases he really knew and remembered, where this festive holiday was marked so strongly in his mind, not by presents or lights, carols or feasts - they were marked uniquely by the specificity of his memories: listening to Sherlock practice festive tunes on his violin, eating mince pies and hot tea in front of the cozy fireplace with Sherlock sitting across from him, writing up Christmas cards with Sherlock and pretending to jot down every offensive thing he dictates, when in fact John only adorned each card with a simple “Warmest regards, Sherlock & John”. Sherlock would have been appalled had he known - John wasn’t sure he wanted anyone to think he was capable of regard, let alone warmth. And yet it felt like the truest form of Sherlock he knew - the kind of man who could at the very least, on Christmas, succumb to some kind of inner obligation to provide both warmth and regard to his friends. And how privileged John had felt, to always have been there to receive it, whether they were alone in their flat poring over the papers or hosting another Christmas party or running around London trying to catch murderers - if Sherlock had warmth in him, John would always be the first, and sometimes the only one, to see it. 

2\. That it was this exclusivity they shared that made them best friends. Before Sherlock, John felt like half a person, living in an oversterilised apartment eating undercooked food and surviving through a remarkably controlled existence. He had hardly felt alive. And then he found Sherlock, by some inexplicable, undeserved dose of fortune gifted to him, and it was like the two of them against the rest of the world. It was like he was woken from a blackhole of a dream to find that he had been asleep for years and the world had grown bigger and he could experience it all again like a newborn. In this way, he owed his life to Sherlock, but Sherlock also owed something to John. That had always bound them together - there can be no Sherlock Holmes without John Watson.

3\. He had been in love with Sherlock - is in love with Sherlock. John’s chest tightened now as he pressed his hand against the black marble of Sherlock’s gravestone - it was their first Christmas apart. How had John not known before? John suspected that this line of questioning was rather disingenuous. He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t fully know. But something had kept him from living it fully, from saying it aloud, from letting the sickness of love overtake him like it should have and put him into a frenzy of desire and tenderness and sacrifice and pure, irrevocable devotion… the things Sherlock seemed adverse to. But now Sherlock was gone, and John could finally admit these things without fear of judgement or rejection, without fear of having to confront it with his best friend and risk everything.

But what good was his courage now, he wondered, when there was no one he could be brave for anymore?

The last time John visited Sherlock’s grave, he had begged, pleaded for Sherlock to come back from the dead. He went home that day feeling in all his absolute desperation the total futility of wishing. And yet it was Christmas, and miracles were supposed to happen. Just today, he could stand here and say the three words he needed most to say, and hope and wish and will that Sherlock would have somehow known of them, that he knew them, so that there would have been some purpose for how John felt, that it wasn’t lost with Sherlock’s death. Just for today, John wouldn’t have to feel ridiculous with himself for saying the things he should have said long ago. 

“I…” he began, shifting as his chest began to well up. “I’m not comfortable with this sort of thing, usually. But it’s been a while now. And it’s Christmas. And what I’m trying to say, is–”

“That on Christmas day, miracles are supposed to happen,” a deep voice came from behind, causing John to freeze mid-sentence. He knew that voice, as someone could only know another voice most intimately, the way it flowed and lifted and touched John like a gentle caress personified, the way it curled up into a soft ball, landing dearly inside his chest, the way it shook him now as his breath hitched in his throat and all his senses screamed at him to just turn, turn and face the only man whose voice he knew in this manner. 

“You told me to come back. And so here I am. I’m here, John.”

John turned, and in that instant knew how it felt to be woken from a blackhole of a dream yet again, that the second time it happens you always feel the punch of waking life hitting deeper than the first time, the kind that wrenches your gut and leaves you in stunned silence, chest pounding and head throbbing and completely lost for reactions, because the first time it happens you’re not really sure what is happening - the sudden changes, the need for quick adaption, but the second time, you see it for all it is - everything you missed and everything that is hitting you with full force now. Sherlock Holmes has come back from the dead. 

“Sherlock –” It was like John’s chest was caving in, his breath escaping him.

“Before you continue,” Sherlock said, advancing closer. “Allow me to just say - to say how sorry I am, and to say - to say –” Sherlock seemed like he was choking, breath equally uncontrollable. “I’ve always meant to say, and I can’t think of a better time, can’t see why it should be put off again – I’ve hated myself for what I did, and if I don’t say this now, I might as well leave. I – John, I–”

“I know,” John suddenly gasped out, his chest heaving as he struggled to comprehend the situation. And yet, he was sure of one more thing today. “I know,” he repeated softly, holding Sherlock’s gaze and taking in all of him, from his messy curls to his turned-up coat to his pale skin, all fixtures and tropes of the dreamworld John had been living in this past year. 

Sherlock stepped in closer to his doctor, his blogger, so close that their foreheads were almost touching, both men still and breathing heavily and at that moment, peaceful in each other’s shadow. 

And just as the first curtains of light snow began to fall that day, snowflakes landing perched on John’s eyelashes and Sherlock’s dark hair now dotted with specks of white, and just as sounds of a joyful choir began to waft out of the church next to the cemetery, just as a gust of cold wind blew through the two men and they began to shiver slightly, they moved closer to one another, for warmth, you see.

“Merry Christmas, John,” Sherlock whispered, closing in the last few measures of distance between his face and the face of the man, this kind, selfless, brave man, who from the beginning had him so wholly and irrevocably in love at “Here, use mine.”

After all, Christmas is about giving.


End file.
